Stranger on Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  He was right: no sooner had Otto stepped over the threshold than Magnus was up on his feet, his wonderful blue eyes misty with emotion as he beheld his grandson for the first time – a tall, handsome man, darkly bearded, broad shouldered, standing in a ray of sunlight spilling in through the door.

  ‘Son,’ he murmured and going stiffly forward he clasped the big man to his bosom with such a strength of love that Otto found himself returning the gesture, his heart full to bursting in the knowledge that, at last, he had come into the heart and the home of ‘Grannie Sheena’s man’.

  ‘Son,’ Magnus said again, standing back to gaze at the powerful face, the magnetic eyes of his grandson, his beguiling, one-toothed smile coming readily to his nut-brown face. ‘Come you in and sit you down. First we will have a strupak and then we will talk – ay – by God and we will.’

  Otto remembered Mark and looked beyond the small-paned window, but Mark had taken himself off on a walk over the moors and was already just a speck in the heat-hazed distance.

  An hour passed on timeless wings. The old man’s house was a wonderland of knowledge and learning. Dusty shelves were filled to overflowing with books; reams of poetry, music, songs, all written and composed by Magnus himself, spilled from every conceivable space. A tiny enclosure, which Magnus proudly referred to as his ‘music room’, housed an ancient piano, an accordion, two fiddles, a set of kettle drums and another of bagpipes. ‘Though I havny the breath to play them much these days,’ he explained regretfully, ‘only sometimes, on a summer’s night when the moor has that strange sort o’ bewitchment about it, I canny resist taking a wee walk over to Baldy’s Burn where I can sit and play my pipes in peace.’

  Otto was enchanted by everything he saw, touched and heard, and the hour was too short for the pair to say all that they wanted to say to one another.

  Mark returned from his walk and gratefully gulped down two cups of tea, and then it was time to go with many promises from Otto to come back at every available opportunity.

  Otto was tired by the time he and Mark reached the five-barred gate, and when he climbed into Thunder he sat back in the ancient leather seat and closed his eyes.

  Mark glanced at him. Was it his imagination, or had the big Austrian grown a bit thinner since coming to Rhanna? He certainly seemed fit enough and his zest for life was gaining strength the more he familiarized himself with the people of the island, but there was something about his face, some slight change, that Mark found rather disquieting.

  But he made no comment till they were at the gate of the shorehouse when he turned to Otto and said lightly, ‘I’m about to let poor old Thunder have her summer siesta. I’m a bicycle man during the longer days,’ he smiled, ‘much to the disapproval of old Behag who thinks it’s undignified for a minister to go fleeing about the place on a bike. The point I’m trying to make is this, it does my old motor no good at all to be laid up for too long and you would be doing me a favour if you would take her off my hands and keep her on the road for me. She’s had a complete overhaul by one o’ the more mechanically minded village lads and shouldn’t let you down too badly. It would mean you could go and visit Magnus whenever you have a mind so all in all, everybody would be happy.’

  Otto looked gratefully at Mark. He didn’t fancy Erchy’s infamous bus and had been wondering how he would make the difficult journey to Croy Beag without transport. He knew that this ‘man o’ God’ had deliberately made the acceptance of Thunder easy for him and he said quietly, ‘I would be honoured to have the use of your car and I’ll take good care of her, I promise you that.’

  Mark grinned. ‘She has a mind o’ her own – she’ll take care o’ you in her own particular way, it might no’ always be what you have in mind for she can be gey unpredictable but at least you’ll have some fun – and frustrations – getting to know her.’

  And so it was settled. Otto, who had hitherto kept rather a low profile, never venturing very far from Burg Bay, soon became ubiquitous. Wherever he went he was invited to partake of strupaks and his company was eagerly sought at ceilidhs and other such social gatherings. He soon felt himself to be an accepted member of the island community and became a familiar sight driving along the roads in Thunder.

  One or two of the islanders thought that they had seen him somewhere before but couldn’t be sure where and when, if indeed they had seen him at all, but Barra McLean, who all along had puzzled over Otto’s identity, went home one day to look through the collection of records that she had brought with her from Glasgow. She hadn’t played them for a long time, simply because there was no electricity supply in her house to work her record player, which meant that it had lain at the back of a cupboard gathering dust. She had soon found what she was looking for and she sat back on her heels, staring at the face of ‘the foreign stranger’ on one of the record sleeves – younger looking to be sure, but the black hair and beard, the riveting eyes, were unmistakable just the same.

  ‘Karl Gustav Langer,’ she whispered, ‘at last, I know who you are.’

  She felt awed, honoured to think that such a great man had come to Rhanna to live among its people – and more – that the very same man was a McKinnon with Hebridean blood running proud and strong in his veins. She realized that, for all the obvious reasons, he wanted to remain anonymous, and she vowed to herself there and then that, as far as she was concerned, his secret was safe for as long as he wanted it to be.

  So Otto went on his way undiscovered, delighting in his freedom, meeting people who had only been names to him before. One of these was Shona McLachlan, only daughter of McKenzie o’ the Glen, who helped her husband run his veterinary practice at Mo Dhachaidh, the old house which had once belonged to Biddy McMillan, a fondly remembered character who had nursed the island population for most of her life.

  The surgery was quiet when Otto went there with Vienna, who had worried him with some rather strange behaviour of late. At the sound of the bell, Shona came out into the hall, tall, slender, attractive, her mane of auburn hair tied back with a black velvet ribbon, her amazingly blue eyes shining with interest in her fine-featured face. She knew Otto at once, having seen him many times passing Mo Dhachaidh in Thunder, but this was the first face to face meeting and, holding out her hand, she introduced herself.

  He couldn’t keep the admiration out of his eyes, this was unmistakably Fergus McKenzie’s daughter – that proud tilt of her head, the same fearless eyes, the way she had of carrying herself, the same quizzical half-smile at the corners of her mouth, the dimpled cleft in the middle of her firm little chin.

  As they stood there, a mini tornado in the shape of five-year-old Ellie Dawn McLachlan, burst out of one door in the hall and in through another, a few seconds later popping her head out to say ‘hallo’ to Otto before disappearing once more.

  Shona smiled. ‘My daughter, the eldest, the other is only two but already she bosses her brother about something terrible.’

  Otto nodded. ‘Children, they are a joy. Myself . . .’ he held up the basket he was carrying, ‘I only have a cat, she adopted me when I first arrived and now she will not leave my side. But she is unwell, her behaviour is very peculiar, she mopes in the house, she hides in cupboards, she scratches up the cushion in her bed, she makes hideous wailing noises, she eats like a horse and now she will not eat at all. I thought perhaps your husband could have the examination of her.’

  Shona lifted the cat out of the basket. Gently she pressed the soft belly and laughed. ‘You can save yourself the bother and the expense of seeing Niall: your cat is having kittens, that’s all. Her time is very near and that is why she is looking for a quiet place to give birth.’

  Otto stared. ‘But she never leaves the house, she is a home cat, she only goes out when it is strictly necessary!’

  Shona’s eyes twinkled. ‘Indeed, that is why she is pregnant, it must have been a necessity for her to sneak out on the tiles for a clandestine meeting with her suitor – probably Murdy McKinnon’s big torn, he’s v
ery charming and persuasive and has fathered umpteen generations of cats.’

  Otto threw back his head and gave vent to his deep, booming laugh. Niall came out of his surgery at the sounds of merriment and the three of them stood chatting till Otto decided it was time to go home on a matter of great urgency, namely the birth of Vienna’s kittens.

  ‘You must come to the McKinnon Clan Gathering,’ was his parting shot. ‘Everyone else seems to be pulling McKinnons willy nilly out of their hats so you must do the same. It doesn’t matter if they have been dead and buried for hundreds of years, your claim will still be valid. I have decided to hold my gathering at the end of July, so that gives you ample time to produce something reasonably suitable. Bring your parents too – I know Fergus will want to pay me back for all that schnapps I made him drink and Lachlan must be there to keep order.’

  When the door had closed on him, Shona and Niall looked at one another. ‘I can see now why the island is fascinated by him,’ was Niall’s verdict. ‘The magnetism of the man is unmistakable and he is also very persuasive.’ He took her arm and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Let us repair to the kitchen for a good hot cuppy and over it we can rake up our dead relatives – figuratively speaking, of course. We’ll see what we can come up with in the shape o’ some poor old ghost who is just hanging around waiting for us to discover his McKinnon connections!’

  Bit by bit, Otto became well known to everyone and it wasn’t long before he was being hailed as Mac nan Èilean, which in Gaelic means Son of the Island and was one of the greatest accolades he could ever receive since it was normally only born and bred islanders who were bestowed with Gaelic titles of such a fond nature.

  At every opportunity he visited his grandfather till it seemed the two had known one another all of their lives. Together they composed songs and sat in the music room playing the treasured collection of musical instruments – Otto the ancient piano, Magnus the fiddle, and sometimes the bagpipes out there in the open moors, much to Otto’s enchantment.

  He also took his grandfather to Tigh na Cladach where a ceilidh had been arranged. It proved to be a memorable musical evening. Rachel, Jon and Lorn played together on their fiddles, and were soon joined by old Magnus on his, his silvery white head a startling contrast to the three dark young heads close by.

  Mark James sang ‘Song of Rhanna’ in his rich baritone voice. The words, composed by him, had been set to a poignantly beautiful tune of Rachel’s making. Three years ago it had been something of a hit in the music world and every time an island wireless was turned on the strains of the song had soared forth till very soon it was on everybody’s lips.

  And now Mark James stood in Otto’s sitting room, looking not in the least ‘minister-ish’ in an open-necked blue shirt and cord slacks, his ruggedly handsome face serious and just a little sad as the words soared forth:

  Take me back where I belong,

  Where the skylark sings his song,

  And the peace of island life is all around.

  Where the people raise a hand,

  And there’s a welcome in the land,

  And honest, friendly faces can be found . . .

  Take me home, oh, take me home,

  For I no longer want to roam,

  My heart is yearning for the hills, the glens,

  For the sea’s tumultuous roar,

  For the spume upon the shore,

  For the mist that veils the corries on the bens . . .

  ‘Wunderbar!’ Otto applauded in delight and went immediately to the piano to pick up the tune. The others took up their fiddles, everyone began to sing, and very soon ‘Song of Rhanna’ became a symphony of words and music that just went on and on because no one wanted the uplifting experience ever to end.

  But then came a pause in proceedings when the merrymakers sat back to rest and partake of a well-earned drink.

  From a corner of the room Jon watched Rachel and Otto. There was something between the two that he couldn’t quite fathom, it was as if they shared some secret that no one else knew of. She was very attentive to him, he equally of her, yet not once did they touch or even communicate very often, but each glance, every quiet smile, held more meaning than any physical contact ever could.

  Suspicion and jealousy smote Jon to the quick. He had been married to Rachel for almost seven years yet he was still besotted by her. He was only too aware of the power she wielded over men, wherever she went they surrounded her in admiring droves and little wonder, hers was a dark and fiery beauty with her tumbling mass of jet black hair, her flashing dark eyes, her superb body and her long, shapely legs. All that, together with her intensely passionate nature, was a combination of physical and mental attraction that few men could resist, and Jon often felt that he was perhaps too tame and quiet for a young girl of such vitality. He was in his forties, old enough to be her father, but Rachel had never minded that – in fact – now that he came to think of it, she always got on well with older men and Herr Otto Klebb must be nearer fifty than forty.

  Jon thought back to that night she had run from the house after the row with his mother. She hadn’t returned till the early hours of morning and next day when he had challenged her she had admitted quite frankly that she had gone to visit Otto. After that he had noticed a distinct change in her: she was withdrawn and distant, she went off on long, lone walks, she didn’t play her violin as often as she used to and when he spoke to her about it she just looked at him with smouldering fathomless eyes and turned away from him without explanation of any sort.

  Not even Mamma’s continued presence, her interference in the running of the home, and her loud and frequent complaints seemed to affect Rachel any more, and Jon’s thoughts would turn to the vague hints and innuendoes concerning his wife and Otto, that he had only half listened to on his return to Rhanna.

  Not that Rachel was any less loving towards him, in fact their love-making was more sensuous, more wonderful than it had ever been, but always there was Otto. She went to visit him as frequently as she dared and quite often accompanied him to Croy Beag to visit his grandfather.

  She had been instrumental in organizing this ceilidh, gathering together the best musical talent in the village to entertain both Otto and Magnus. She had been adamant about not inviting Mamma. ‘She will just want to talk about herself in that loud voice of hers,’ she had indicated quite plainly to Jon, ‘and that is the last thing I want at this ceilidh. She hasn’t met Otto yet and will only monopolize him all night, and I’m also afraid that she might recognize him as Karl Langer and let the whole world know.’

  To say that Mamma wasn’t pleased at this decision would be putting it too mildly. She had told Rachel she was mean, petty, selfish; she thought only of herself, her needs, her desires; she cared nothing for a sick old woman who was a virtual outsider in this small-minded community with its gossip, its sly sneers, its unfriendliness.

  Rachel merely listened to all this without so much as a bat of an eye before calmly turning on her heel and walking out of the room, leaving Jon to console his mother as best he could. He finally hit on the only solution he could think of, that of suggesting she could go over to Anton and Babbie’s for the evening, and rushed to Croft na Ard next morning to guiltily tell them the news.

  They had received his rather garbled explanation with admirable poise and so Mamma had been delivered to their doorstep late that afternoon, complete with a pack of cards, which she loved to play and could never get Rachel interested in, a quantity of cold ham for her tea because she was afraid of the ‘stodgy’ Scottish food, and her soap bag and talcum powder, since she might as well avail herself of ‘the soak’ while the opportunity presented itself.

  In truth, Jon was glad that his mother wasn’t at the ceilidh – he knew she would have talked too long and too loudly about herself, as Rachel had said. As it was, it had been an exceptional evening and he had enjoyed it, but now, seeing his wife and Otto so attuned to one another in every way, he was wishing that he hadn’t come
either and he turned away from the sight of them, his sensitive face pensive, his brown eyes bewildered and hurt.

  He wasn’t the only one to see that there was something going on between Otto and Rachel, Ruth too watched and wondered, and as the evening wore on all her former suspicions returned with renewed force. She hadn’t seen nearly so much of her old friend as she had hoped, when Rachel came to Fàilte it was almost as if she did so more from a sense of duty than from a real desire to visit, but her pleasure in seeing the children was as genuine as ever. She brought them small gifts, she played with them and entertained them in her own inimitable way, but somehow she didn’t have nearly so much to say to Ruth as she used to and after a while she would make some excuse and rush away as if someone or something far more exciting awaited her.

  ‘She’s frightened you might start asking awkward questions,’ Lorn said when Ruth broached the subject. ‘She knows you only too well and doesn’t want to be forced into a corner.’

  ‘And just what do you mean by that, Lorn McKenzie?’ Ruth flashed at him, tossing her fair hair back from her angry little face. ‘What awkward questions would I ask? And why would I force her into a corner?’

  ‘Ruthie,’ Lorn said with a sigh. ‘You know full well what I mean. Rachel and you are like sisters, you can almost read one another’s minds. She knows that you were suspicious about her and Otto, she’s aware that there has been talk and she just doesn’t want to hear you lowering yourself to the ranks of the island gossips, that’s all.’